


Nurse Grace

by The_Lights_Dance_On



Series: Of Psychopaths [3]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: Bad Parenting, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Children, Doctor's appointment, Femininity, GP, I'm Sorry, Injections, Internalized Misogyny, Light Sadism, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Misogyny, Sadism, judgemental vibes, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 23:40:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lights_Dance_On/pseuds/The_Lights_Dance_On
Summary: It's a typical day at work.
Series: Of Psychopaths [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540624
Kudos: 3





	Nurse Grace

Grace sprayed the surface of her desk one, two, three times. It had already been cleaned that morning, of course, like everything in her office, but you could never be too careful. Her last patient was dirty. The sight of his cracked fingernails sliding across her desk had been enough to send shivers down Grace’s spine.

On his way out, he had knocked his side against Grace’s wall of thank-you letters. Finished with wiping down the desk, she straightened the cards. They were pretty tokens from well-mannered patients – well-mannered patients with good taste, of course. Any crass or ugly cards went in the bin. 

_You have been an absolute star!_ Doris, who had bought a very pretty card with a duckling on it, reminded her. 

Yes, she was good at her job, as the thank-you letters told her, and that was nice to know in a building overflowing with incompetence and grime. 

Thankful that the hideous old man was gone, she set her kettle to boiling for a well-deserved cup of tea in her favourite cup. It was a duck-egg blue with a floral pattern, white on the inside. She was particular about that sort of thing. She could only use it on Tuesdays, because she liked to match, and Tuesdays were when she wore her blue hair-bow. Mondays were pink (Alice band), Wednesdays were yellow (barrette), Thursdays were lavender (hair-bow) and Fridays were mint green (Alice band). Tuesdays were duck-egg blue.  
She had barely begun to enjoy the tea – which was perfect, because she had made it – when her break was interrupted by high-pitched wailing. That wasn’t out of place at a GP, but it was hardly soothing after that unclean old man and his boring painful leg. She winced and closed her eyes, hoping that the tea would somehow deafen her. 

It did not. 

Abandoning the thought of a break, she put down her tea and consulted the details of her next patient. Timothy Stanton was four years old, and very likely to be the source of that noise. She scowled at one of the kittens. Screeching of that pitch was almost tangible. She imagined Timothy Stanton bawling his way through the building, grime dripping from the walls every time he opened his mouth in a fresh cry, and her palm tensed around her papers. She had half a mind to refuse to ever give a child an injection again. 

But she was good at her job, and that meant seeing all patients. Grace breathed in through her nose and decided that, as with everything, she would have to put up with it. 

She checked her appearance in the mirror. No doubt the mother would turn up looking rumpled. Her curls were crisp and secured perfectly in place with the bow, sitting atop her head like a very pretty crown. Her jumper was pale blue too, warm and fuzzy, over a silky blouse with a bow at the neck and two on each sleeve. Her tights and skirt were white, and her shoes polished and brown, kitten heels. They had a bow too. 

The sound was not coming any closer. No doubt bratty Timothy would have dug his heels into the floor and started screaming in place. Grace decided she was safe to re-apply her makeup. She wore a professional face, of course: she didn’t cake it on like some women she saw. No doubt Timothy’s mother would be scrawled all over with red lipstick. 

She had done her full face and prepared everything for Timothy’s appointment by the time he and his “mother” finally knocked on the door. Four minutes late. Grace sniffed, but very quietly so that they wouldn’t hear.

“Come in,” she said, in a falsely bright voice. It was his father, not his mother, which appeased her annoyance a little but not very much. Little Timothy, still red-cheeked and wet-eyed, had an expression of absolute dislike fixed on her over his fist.

“Don’t want an injection,” he announced around his thumb. Grace waited for his father to correct either his sentence structure or his behaviour, losing all hope when all he did was smile sheepishly.

“Timothy’s a little scared of injections,” he said. 

Grace bared her teeth in what she hoped came across as a welcoming smile. “Well, lots of little children are. Timothy can sit up on his chair and get a lollipop once he’s finished.” Usually she promised a lollipop only for good behaviour, but the Stantons had clearly already forsaken that. All she could hope for was to get the little brat out in under five minutes.

Timothy started crying again, at a more moderate temperature this time, but it still made tension spark at Grace’s temples. She drew out the needle with unusual relish. If this was a task that had to be performed, she could at least enjoy it. 

“Now, Timothy,” she said sweetly. “This is a very big needle, so let’s have a brave face, shall we? Look at the sticker of Spiderman across the wall.” 

Spiderman, of course, was just the angle best for Timothy to see the needle. He took one look and began wailing at a higher decibel. 

“Timothy,” said his father, in a voice Grace supposed was the closest he got to authority. “Timothy!” 

“Now, Timothy,” said Grace, voice still dripping with sweetness, “focus on Spiderman.” And with a dark, curling feeling of satisfaction that exploded from her stomach to her brain, she pushed the needle through as slowly as she could. 

Timothy left the room screaming even louder, a blue raspberry lollipop stuck in his mouth in place of his thumb.

Grace sighed to herself and poured her tea down the sink. Perhaps she would have time for one before her next patient.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This entire series is written as part of my EPQ, which is focused on general response to psychopathic traits in literature. Because it's about the way we react, I would really appreciate it if you took this survey: https://www.surveymonkey.co.uk/r/MP8RKYW


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